Antithesis
by Senom299
Summary: The Shepherds find a man on the side of the road by day, and everything is sugar, rainbows, and the occasional undead. Two mages find a woman in the desert, and all they get out of it is... more undead. His name was Robin, and he went in the history books because he set a fleet on fire. Her name was Raven, and she carried the Plegian army on her back for a month. And then some.
1. Focus: Tharja

_Warning: like any plotline-encompassing fic, this one is absolutely riddled with spoilers. Proceed with caution._

 _It's not much of a step up in the world from character-inserts, because it's cliche as nobody's business, but hey, I tried._

* * *

 **In Which Tharja is Silenced For the First Time in Her Life, and Does Not Approve**

The border sands were the harshest, least forgiving place in all the continent: hot as Elfire by day, with the sun beating upon your face or back twofold as if it loomed over the heavens, and cold as the true Feroxi winds by night. A traveler by his lonesome not properly equipped wouldn't last the day. The sand, shifting into miniature cliffs and valleys and hills, would all but swallow the soles of his shoes if he walked an hour; the bandits would be upon him within five. It was said that any who walked the desert for their lifetime had no soul, for Grima's sleeping essence would suck it right down from beneath the golden waste. Bedtime stories, perhaps, but the point stood: the borders of Plegia and Ferox, the very earth divided in its allegiances, were the most forbidding of all Naga's creations.

Depending on what you believed, anyway.

In Tharja's opinion, all the border _was_ was hell on earth. Especially after dusk. Woe betide she who walked the sands with nothing but the thin fabric, no better to cover oneself than a bridesmaid's veil, of a dark sorceress as protection from the moon's chill.

A chill of different nature ran down her spine, and she scowled.

Her lips were always pursed just so, in a thin line only accenting the dark eyes that scorned all they would behold; if elements could be hexed aside with a mere stare, the entire desert would have been blown to the side. Her only warmth stemmed from thick black hair-a blessing that only worked half the day-set just so to try and cover what of her shoulders her cloak could not. With one hand, she gripped a tome to her breast, and in the other, one half of the cloak as far across her torso as it could reach. Indeed, she was the very picture of an enraged housewife having abandoned her husband, now stubbornly crossing the desert to find a better life.

Only, she was no housewife. She despised them. She was _better_ than them-no housewife would have made it so far across the sands as she had. No doubt one of those simpering maids would have _enjoyed_ the... events of the Plegian army.

Her scowl deepened, and her steps hastened.

She hadn't been with them long, but she was very sure she already despised it. In the beginning, it had seemed a profitable arrangement. Where he'd expected to find an entirely ransacked village from his latest pillage, the Mad King had found two dozen of his men littering a circle around a girl with a smoking tome. Dead, all of them. It wasn't the first time she'd been rudely interrupted while hiding out in this encampment or that, but it _was_ the first that someone of gall actually came to investigate. And gall he had-Gangrel has surmised that if two dozen men was a sorceress's worth, that sorceress should have the respect and pay of two dozen men for potential service.

Tharja had heard tales. She knew the songs-awful, off-key ditties played by mongrel bards who would sooner hasten a few words to honor the throne than have their heads removed, or worse. They all spoke of the cruelest ruler of the whole continent. The most powerful troubadour. Golden-tongued, with teeth made of knives to bite the enemies of Plegia. Well, the bards were awful, but there was some truth to their words. King Gangrel was a smart man. He just acted so despicably _stupid._ But after living so long between desert villages, never quite having a place in the world, it had sounded like a sound promise.

For a while, he kept to his word. She joined his army. People feared her for her magic and admired her for her... physique. Admired a bit too much. From too close. She just hexed them at first. Usually, hallucinating that your drink was a zombified bear lumbering over you was enough to send you running for your life. But they grew more bold, and she'd decided enough was enough.

All the gold and amusement in Plegia (of the former there was much, but of the former supply was dwindling _fast_ ) could not keep her there. So, she walked.

All would be well and good, if she could only solve one problem.

"... really think that sand should be a spellable element! You find it in greater capacities than, say, _fire_ in these parts, right? I saw a guy try to contain water in a tome, but boy, was he in for a shock-he didn't realize it was already storing a Thoron! He didn't really have it in him to experiment anymore after that. Weird. Hey, Tharja-"

If the prattling wasn't enough to drive her mad, the constant flapping of wings in the distance would surely do the trick sooner or later. The only other thing she could be certain of was that the man behind her was _still_ following her, as he had been for at least the past few hours. Why he had followed her out of the outpost was anyone's guess, but he'd been doing it like they had been acquainted for years.

They hadn't met until those past few hours ago.

She knew the tales about _him_ , too. A youth with hair of silver-though it was more like dove feathers, she thought with a grimace-and guarded by crows by the score. Few in the land had ever seen the true extent of his dark curses. A myth had come to life, and he'd become easily the most annoying companion she'd ever had.

Then again, there wasn't much she could compare him to.

His name was Henry, as he had cheerily disclosed: he was despicably chipper. His mouth was always set in an eerie grin, and his eyes were always firmly shut. It was like looking at a painting of a child, except the mouth and everything else moved. And made noise. And followed her.

"Henry," she said thickly, as if ashamed she had made greater note of the name than she ought, "stop talking."

The mage at her heels stood for a moment, as if shocked: his jaw was slack, brows furrowed. Good. She had rendered him immobile and that would, if nothing else, get her a head start. Despite all his unnaturalness, she feared that the loose tongue commonplace among other Plegians would be his as well. But, by the grace of perhaps the god beneath the sands (she was no Grimleal, but perhaps you _could_ teach an old dog new tricks if he was listening to her unfounded prayers), he shrugged and remained silent.

Tharja turned again, jerking her arm to pull her cloak more tightly about herself. When had he begun chattering about sand? It was in poor taste, if anything. No matter how the moonlight turned the gold beneath their feet to silver, bearing a striking semblance to the element learned travelers called "snow", she could hardly call it a topic for conversation. But with snow came ice and a wind more biting than what any roadside bandit in all his furs could imagine, or so she had heard.

The wasteland scenery, if it could even be called that, was starting to play tricks on her eyes: a dark spot appeared between the dunes ahead. Too bright, she thought, for a night without clouds in a desert may as well be daytime still.

"Tharja," Henry piped up again. She didn't break her stride; maybe if she ignored him for just a while longer, he would give up. Not that it had worked before.

"Uh, Tharja?"

No such luck. Now he was trying to grab her shoulder. She mumbled a response-or what she intended as a response. Really, it was an electric shock to his finger.

"Ooh, _nifty!"_ the mage's voice leapt with glee. Right. No pain threshold to speak of. She'd forgotten that little detail. "No, but really, Tharja-check that out. By that dune. See?"

"We're surrounded by dunes," the sorceress told him through gritted teeth, but see she did. So the spot was real, not just a trick of the wastes. It was probably a body. Lucky for them, she mused, if they died covered with something thick enough to almost shield them from the chill. ... Or maybe it was a naked Feroxi. That was just as likely. "Do you propose to feed that to your crows?"

"Maybe!" He chirped. "That's a pretty good idea. But I was actually thinking, why haven't the bandits come to drag it off? The body. Or the Grimleal to use it in a cult sacrifice. Usually one or the other has some kind of party patrolling, and if they made it long enough to be dead they should have been found by now."

"That's... bizarrely observant." Tharja cast her eyes to Henry, half expecting to see a serious expression for once. Her hopes were dashed. He looked like a giddy puppy. "I didn't know you were capable."

"Aw, shucks. Hey, it looks like they had a robe." He pointed out as they drew closer. The poor unfortunate soul did, in fact, wear a robe, and quite a heavy one at that by the looks of it. "Do you wanna grab it? You look like you're turning blue."

She would have argued that he was just as pale and in danger of wind chill as she was, but then she realized he probably didn't even notice. So she shrugged.

"Fine, we'll look. If it smells of piss, ale, or blood, we leave it." She grimaced. That was a Plegian robe, by the color and symbols. On closer inspection, the purple linings were the runes of the Grimleal. Maybe someone hadn't met the cult's standards.

Henry was all too eager to examine the body: he poked once at what he assumed to be the shoulder, then rolled the whole thing over.

Tharja drew a sharp breath.

When one saw the Grimleal, one saw only a hooded head or the face of a wizened old sage with vile contempt for the earth they'd lived on for too long. This, though-this was a younger woman, maybe close to the age of a younger housewife. Her hair was black as Tharja's and almost as long, pinned back into cascading falls; her flesh was laid pale and gaunt in the moonlight, twiglike arms wrapped close to her chest. But these hadn't surprised the sorceress: the unsteady, but definite rise and fall of her chest had.

"Holy crow!" The mage beside her drew back, mouth all but agape. "Look at that, this one's alive! ... So, what do you wanna do, Tharja? Take the robes and make a run for it?"

Tharja's head snapped to the side, gray eyes boring into where his would never appear. " _Wait._... I don't like this. What's a Grimleal doing so far from its pack? They're like swarms of hornets. Their sages would never let a stray close enough to other humans to disclose all their secrets."

"... So you _don't_ want the cloak, or..."

The stray in question's eyes flickered open, then shut again. Tharja held her breath-and they opened again.

"Hey-o!" Henry greeted brightly, leaning forward on his knees. "That's a heck of a place to take a nap, lady. Or should I say a _hex_ of a place?"

He let out one of his ill-timed cackles, like a prepubescent boy trying to imitate a cat. Tharja expected a reaction out of the woman-a jolt, maybe. A hex. For her to scramble away, or look surprised, disgusted, aware, _something_ -but her eyes, speckled and shining green, were hazed and glassy.

She shook her head.

"I'm sorry, I... where am I?"

She didn't _sound_ Grimleal, Tharja thought mildly. Too... _polite._ Too much _life_ in her voice. Gradually, the haze in her eyes cleared, too. "You're not in a very dignified position for conversation, are you?" The sorceress's eyebrow raised.

Henry extended a hand.

"We can fix that! Here, can you stand?"

Like a giddy puppy, indeed.

The stranger blinked at his hand, as if unsure of how to respond. Then, gingerly, she sat up, taking it and allowing the mage to pull her to her feet. Before her hand dropped, Tharja saw it: a purple eye embedded in the back of her hand.

There could be no doubt, then. But why so close to the Plegian border, and why all alone?

"I'm shocked. The stray sniffed out another stray." Frankly, she had no idea if Henry could be considered a stray or not. _She_ certainly hadn't adopted him.

"Aw, Tharja, don't be mean! I mean, she just woke up!" He waved a hand, turning back to the Grimleal woman. "So, what _are_ you doing out here on the border sands? You were just an hour from the nearest inn! ... I think. Give or take."

"Henry." The sorceress's tone was cutting.

"I'm... not sure. Honestly." The stranger's brow furrowed as she looked between them. "How odd... where did you say we were? The border sands? Of... where, exactly?"

"Plegia!" He chirped. Tharja pushed him aside at this juncture. If she had cared enough, she would have cast a hex to sew his mouth shut and be done with it.

"That's _enough._ You're quite the actress, aren't you? Feigning stroke, or amnesia, or maybe a curse-that's what your people are best at. You should know soldiers when you see them."

"I thought you gave Gangrel the pink slip. You're not a soldier." Henry began. This time, she actually did raise a hand to hex him-but then, without warning, Tharja's _own_ mouth refused to open.

She cast him a baffled gaze, to which he shrugged. "Whoops. Force of habit. I like _casting_ hexes, but I don't really like being _hit_ with them, you know? I don't like ouchies."

He turned back to the stranger, his expression never having changed the whole time. "You sound kind of confused, lady. How did you get out here and forget you were in the desert?"

She blinked at him, then stared down at her hands. "That's... that's a good question. I want to recall, but I just... can't. What did she mean, my people?"

Tharja gave Henry as vile a look as she could muster. The hex didn't come off. She began preparing a _very_ long list of swears once she could speak again.

"Oh, you know, your everyday cult. You're dressed up like one of theirs. Death god worshipping, blood sacrificing, lots of messy stuff." The mage tilted his head to and fro. "D'you have a name, at least?"

"Well, it's... it's... hmm." The woman's brow furrowed.

"You don't remember that, either." Henry slumped.

"I'm not sure... it isn't coming for me, that much is certain."

At long last, the mage seemed to remember something _quite important_ and turned back to Tharja. "Oh! Almost forgot, that pesky curse can come off now! Sha _bam!"_

Finding that she could use words again, the sorceress grabbed him by the sleeve and hissed, "If you _ever_ do that again, I will not hesitate to raise your entrails so they pour out through your nostrils and your brains through your _ears._ "

Naturally, he only giggled. "Neat! Well, let's start this over-I'm Henry, and this is Tharja! We're Plegian dark mages, the best around!"

"There's no _let's_ in this. I don't trust this woman, and I shouldn't have trusted you for the short time I did." She scowled. " _Tharja_ is _leaving._ You can do with this one as you will and entertain your fancies of lost memory to your little hearts' contents. Goodbye."

And just like that, with no further hexing or swearing or even contemptuous eyeing of the other party, she turned on her heel and left.

She had almost wanted that cloak.

Pity.


	2. Focus: Henry

_Good gravy, I didn't think I'd be back. But I am! Other projects took precedence for a little while, school and otherwise. But the story continues._

 _Many thanks to **Muggzy** and **Gunlord500** for reviewing! Sorry to have lured you into my snare, but this is not a mere Tharja fic! It is a labyrinth! A labyrinth of **original concepts and other such horrors!**_

 _Ahem._

 _Let's get back to the show, shall we? Fair warning for joking, crude language at work twice in this chapter. Those gosh-darned Plegians._

* * *

 **In Which A Toast is Given to Gangrel's Arse**

He'd hexed them up to their eyeballs.

Drinking wasn't exactly Henry's 'thing'. Bars were nice places to hang out sometimes, sure; the atmosphere itself was intoxicating, good places to people-watch. But ale did funny things to people's heads, and then made them hurt in the morning. And as he always said, he did _not_ like ouchies.

So he'd been spending a bit of downtime at a tavern in one of the villages not far from the border. It had been a good time: a bard was singing an off-key warble about Valmese women, laughter was thick in the air, and nobody bothered him. But maybe that was because a few absolutely dirt-faced soldiers were busy trying to talk to another woman at the counter.

He'd taken notice, sure. His first impression was that she just looked unhappy, and maybe they were cheering her up-but then one of the soldier's hands _strayed,_ and she immediately stood and swept out of the bar. She had a sorceress's outfit-why hadn't she cast something at them? They deserved _something_ for being so rude.

Henry had sat against the wall, flicked his wrist, and watched as the two soldiers slowly realized that the other's skin was peeling off like a freshly-cut fruit. All the way, literally, up to their eyeballs so they could still watch.

He giggled for a few minutes, then took his leave. The tavern just didn't seem very fun anymore.

As he followed her, trying to strike up a conversation ( _"Hey, were those guys bothering you?"_ and _"Don't you think the scorpions will come out and bite you if you stay out here too long?"_ ), he began to recognize her. They were both a part of the same army, and had fought together on the same field once. She was definitely another mage, and one who they said struck fear into the hearts of men. Henry didn't really understand it, but he supposed it worked for her. Her name was... Tharja, that was right.

After about half an hour, she finally answered one of his endless questions ( _"Do you need help?"_ ) with a very sharp "no". So he'd fallen silent for a while, kept walking with the same spring in his step. It was nice to have someone to talk to, even if they wouldn't answer.

Then she left.

"Bye, Tharja!" He called, waving cheerfully. The woman they'd found in the sand (Tharja _swore_ she was a Grimleal, but weren't cultists supposed to be all dark and brooding, all-those-who-behold-me-face-doom? She seemed too nice to be a Grimleal.) frowned, watching her leave.

"... Are you two... friends?"

"Oh—" Henry turned, never pausing to open his eyes as he grinned in her direction, "—yeah, sure! I mean, we've only known each other a few hours, but when you're in the same army you've gotta be friends with everybody! … That reminds me, though."

He started off back in the direction he and Tharja had just come from, setting such a brisk pace the stranger had to run to catch up at first. "You might remember your name later, but we should come up with a… placeholder, I guess? For now."

"A nickname." She frowned in response. "… Did you have anything in mind?"

"Well, your hair's black like a crow's feathers." He lifted a finger in the air as she caught up to his side. "So how about Crow?"

"… That's not a name, Henry."

"Sure it is!" The mage's grin widened despite the rebuttal. "I could do worse, y'know. I could just call you Lady and leave it at that."

"You'll attract every soldier in your army if you do that, I imagine." She wore a wan smile by this point—Henry's attitude was infectious, so long as you weren't Tharja. "If you're so determined to make me a bird, what about Raven? Ravens aren't so different from crows."

" _Not_ true!" He paused on the sand, pouting and planting his hands on his hips. "Crows _caw-_ se a good old-fashioned ruckus. Ravens just sit around croaking all day like frogs. And I think you could _caw_ -se quite a stir—you know magic, right? Is that a tome in your cloak or are you just happy to see me?"

Raven, as she would later insist to be called, squeaked indignantly but drew out a spellbook from her cloak nevertheless—it was apparently well-loved, by sand if not by use, since the dye on the color had faded to the point that one couldn't discern whether it was for Elthunder or Elfire. "I… I suppose I do. It's hazy, but I remember casting before, once."

"Just once? Man, don't aim that thing at me if we run into trouble." Henry dropped his pout and continued walking, his cloak rippling over the sand like an invisible water lay beneath it. "But there's nowhere better to practice than the border sands. Wanna give it a shot to pass the time?"

She cautiously pried the pages apart, handling the book as though it were a precious artifact. "What kind of trouble?"

"Oh, all kinds! Shepherds, undead, the border patrols, stray drunks from the border patrols…" he ticked off on his fingers.

"Shepherds? What's so dangerous about farmers tending their sheep?" Raven fought a giggle, but Henry looked eerily serious for once.

"Shepherds are scary stuff. They're the elite army of Ylisse—we were just at their border. Word is that Lord Chrom leads them, and they have soldiers in the scores. … but they're no match for a couple of mages!" He glanced over at her tome. "Elthunder? Nice. I never got a good handle for the elementals. Do you wanna cast it or what?"

"You're not a very patient man, are you?" The woman shook her head to herself as if answering her own question, running her fingertips over the page she had landed on. "Let me try…"

She came to a halt, barely giving Henry time to turn around before swiping her hand into the air and facing the sky. The page whipped out of the book as if it had been neatly torn, flying to follow her lead and explode into a shower of sparks.

" _Elthunder!_ " she shouted, the remaining pages of the book flipping to and fro as the sparks above her head buzzed in circles—and from them, a bolt of lightning flew high into the night sky. Sand flew in small gales, whipping her cloak and hair about and warming the frosty air.

And the desert fell silent.

… save for the mage in front of her slowly clapping his hands together—first quietly, then gradually continuing into feverish applause. His face was lit like a holiday tree, teeth bared almost threateningly in a wide grin.

"That was _great!_ You had me all worried your amnesia had stopped you from being a mage for nothing, huh?"

Raven lowered her hands, the air settling as it had been and leaving her to brush a few strands of hair from her eyes—hazel, Henry noted (though how he did so without his own being open was anyone's guess). "… was it really?"

"Yeah! You're a _natural_ , Crow!"

"Raven."

"I'll make a respectable bird-mage out of you yet." He waved a hand. "C'mon, let's hurry back to the tavern. There's some people I want you to meet."

"I thought you were _worried_ about running into drunkards." Yet she followed him anyway, a pair of figures drifting across the silken sands beneath the winter moon. The journey was not a long one—Henry had been right when he had said she was only an hour from the nearest inn, but they passed that village right by in favor of the next one. The moon had almost set by the time they slipped into the tavern.

It was… surprisingly loud, for almost being daybreak. Soldiers littered the floor both conscious and unconscious, the former category all raising brimming glasses to a man sitting _on top of_ a table. He held his own glass high, a scar-ridden grin splitting his face, and dark eyes glittered like a victory had been snatched from the jaws of defeat—somewhere, somehow.

"Another round, men! To our man Gangrel—"

"To Gangrel's _arse!"_ A barbarian shouted from the back, voice hoarse but cackling nonetheless. The entire room burst into laughter.

"Hey, look lively! It's still a _good_ arse." The man on the table pointed in his direction, wagging a finger. "That arse gave me my promotion! So yeah, boys! _To Gangrel's great arse!"_

"That's Vasto." Henry muttered, his voice almost lost to the thunderous roar of the tavern ambience. Raven kept her head ducked down, fingering the edge of her hood and wondering whether it would be better to just draw it up or leave it down. "I didn't think his party would go on this late, but basically he just got promoted to captain of his own brigade. I think all the drinks tonight are on him, or something. … He's nice, if you wanna talk to him sometime."

Raven peered over in the captain's direction for half a moment before the mage tugged her wrist over towards the back of the room, where one of the barbarians had spoken earlier. Henry waved frantically to the group by his table—two Myrmidons, a ginger male with his face half drowned in ale and a blonde female tapping her fingers against the knife she'd laid on the table, and a silent Wyvern Rider masked by his helmet—and grabbed a seat, gesturing for Raven to do the same.

"You guys haven't conked out yet?" He asked, clearly amazed. One of the Wyvern Riders shrugged, twirling a strand of hair around her fingers.

"You'd think the whole army was here to celebrate from halfway across the continent. No one's sleeping unless they're buzzed up to their ears." She leaned forward. "By the way, those two from earlier? They got a cleric to them in the nick of time. You should probably watch yourself, Hen."

"Nah, I can just do it to them again." The mage waved a hand, smiling coyly. The blonde suddenly fixed her eyes on Raven, scanning her with cold and calculating green eyes. Then-

"Oh. Oh my _gosh,_ Hen, did you catch a _Grimleal?_ I've never met one!" She leaned over the table and clasped Raven's hands in hers without warning, almost knocking the other Myrmidon's drink over (not going without a loud whine of complaint). "Wow, hi! Are you joining the Plegian army? Do you do the cult sacrifice thing? Because I know some people I'd like sacrificed, just saying—"

"Car." The ginger boy at her right grumbled—because he _was_ mostly a boy, probably barely old enough to be guzzling ale as he was. "We talked about the tact thing."

"Shut _up_ , Raddie, you're on my list."

Raven slowly raised her free hand (since the other was being pinned to the table with an iron grip) to cover her mouth, glancing over at Henry as if he could bail her out. Fortunately, he leaned forward with his arms crossed over the table, cracking his eyes open at 'Car'.

"Hey, Carlotta? First off, her name's Raven, second off, she's not a Grimleal, _third_ off, lady's got amnesia and if you don't get your paws off her I'll turn you into a leech."

Carlotta scooted back, flinging her hands in the air like the two mages were both venomous creatures. "Oh! Oh, gosh, I'm so sorry. Amnesia. That's awful. Isn't that, like, where you get old and lose your marbles?"

"Memory, actually." Raven said softly, fidgeting with the edges of her sleeves. "It's all right. I'm just… not quite myself."

"Do you know what yourself _is_ , though?" Henry elbowed her in the side. She returned the favor, a smile tugging at her lips despite everything.

"No, I suppose I don't. So these are your… friends?"

"We used to do border patrol together." Raddie leaned back in his chair, nearly tipping it all the way over. The barbarian shifted from his spot against the wall to shove him back into place. "We've moved up in the world since then. After tonight, Aversa wants us back on duty at Gangrel's place."

Henry whistled through his teeth. "Getting up and personal with _Aversa?_ You're either a fox or wanna get a knife in your belly, Raddie."

"Both." Carlotta grinned broadly. "Fifty gold says he's gonna be dead by Tuesday. I bet Hen hasn't told you yet, but he's a freelancer. Like Ashe."

The Wyvern Rider tipped his head.

"Oh, don't get me wrong. I still work for the army." The mage puffed his chest up with pride. "How else do you make a living these days? But sitting around in one spot for two long isn't really my thing. The birds don't like it."

"You keep birds?" Raven glanced over at him.

The table suddenly went silent. Raddie spit out his ale across the table, barely missing the sleeping face of a soldier curled up on the floor.

"Wait. Wait, so you haven't noticed yet?" Carlotta stared at Raven as if she'd grown another head. Which, considering she'd been a cultist not a few moments ago, may not have actually been so surprising.

"Noticed _what_?"

"I never thought I'd see the day." Ashe spoke up for the first time that conversation, eyes drilling a hole into her head from behind his helmet. "We've finally found someone who hasn't realized Henry's a crow fetishist."

A purple tome was lobbed at his face not two seconds later.


	3. Focus: The Twins

_It must be said firstly that I delight in very cliché plotlines. Hence the twins and their naming scheme. Speaking of the twins, we have a glimpse into the actual avatar's state of affairs after this segment of Raven's story._

 _It must be said secondly that I also delight in making protagonists suffer at the hands of their own allies. It may be said, second-and-a-half-ly, that I delight in writing a very cynical Robin. That's this chapter in a nutshell: a delight!_

 _Many thanks to_ **Vivid Nemesis** _and_ **potatoman098** _for reviewing! I'm so glad to see that I'm not the only one who's thirsty for Henry and Tharja interaction—the archive is unfortunately short in supply compared to interactions between other characters._

 _But I suppose that's why I'm here!_

* * *

 **In Which Raven Remembers, and Robin Does Not**

Raven, for all her seeming innocence, would later admit that she was not as truthful that night as she might have been.

From the moment she had awakened, she had known three things very clearly: firstly, that her name certainly was _not_ Raven; secondly, that the Grimleal had been chasing her for _ages_ and the further away from them she could be, the better; and thirdly, her brother was nowhere to be found.

Yes, she had a brother.

No, she supposed, it was better that he was missing. It meant there was a chance that he, too, had escaped. Even better, it meant there was a chance he had made it across the Ylissean border. Those had been their mother's instructions to them before the last village they had stayed in was razed to the ground by furious cultists. Ylisse, for all the chatter of their barbaric conquests, was a safe haven if only you could get there. It was a promised land for Plegians if they dared to cast off their birthright, but those who did _still_ risked King Gangrel's wrath, if they were found.

It had been safer, said their mother— _gods rest her soul, wherever now she may be_ , Raven thought, as no one in the world had cared more for the twins than their mother—to stay within the borders and flee only if there were a dire need.

She never told them why there was such a need to hide.

… They had just turned nineteen a few weeks before the attack. They had been promised to know the whole story year after year, and that chance had been stolen away from them now.

Raven had been terrified upon waking, when all she'd seen were the blurred purples born by the Plegian army. But a freelance mage—she never would have expected to meet one. Henry was fascinating, not only in his naivety but also his blatant disregard for any social constructs. Sure, he had been fascinated with _her_ at first, but after brief conversation he seemed content with her insistence that she was an amnesiac.

She traced her fingers over the mark on the back of her hand, well-hidden under the table and her cloak as the soldiers laughed and clattered around her that cloudy sunrise. Henry, she decided, was a friend. A little eccentric, to be sure, and from the word on the wind, _dangerous_ —but maybe that could work in her favor.

Or maybe not.

Her brother had always said she was a poor tactician, whatever _that_ meant.

What truly worried her was the other mage—Tharja. She had seen the mark, she had been suspicious, and she, too, was _dangerous._ The woman had been so intent that Raven was some kind of threat that she couldn't imagine her _not_ running back to Gangrel and reporting her existence. And then… then what? A search warrant would be put out for a stray Grimleal? There would be infighting within their ranks?

Or would she just be easier to hunt down?

A hand waved in front of her face.

"Hey-o, Raven? You haven't had any drinks tonight, right?" Henry's voice, almost brighter than the sunlight beginning to stream in through the windows and dance across the floorboards, broke her out of her trance. "You look like you've outdrunk Raddie!"

The ginger myrmidon was, indeed, passed out on the table. Carlotta began muttering something to the barbarian that had been standing vigil over their table, jerking a thumb at what Raven assumed to be her partner. The barbarian nodded, glancing over to Raddie and suddenly hefting him over his shoulder.

"Speaking of." Carlotta looked flushed in the face by this point—she had been more than happy to drink Raven's share once she had joined the table. "We have to get moving. Our shift is in a few hours, and Aversa'd have our heads if we were late, y'know? … It's been nice meeting you, Raven. If you're looking for work, you should _totally_ come back with us to the castle!"

Raven tensed, gripping her marked hand with the other until her knuckled turned white. "What? That's… that's kind of you, but—"

Henry gasped, leaning forward on the table. "That's a _great_ idea! Mages are always short in supply, so I'm sure you'll get the job no sweat. … Especially if Tharja just resigned."

"Oooooooh, yeah, Tharja was making _bank_. She was really good." Carlotta frowned. "… I still can't believe she resigned. Anybody would trade _anything_ to be in her place. But one person's loss is another person's gain! We should get you to the castle before she changes her mind and tries to get her job back."

"I really don't think—"

But Raven's protests were lost as the ragtag group—two mages, a conscious myrmidon marching at the head with the eyes of a woman on a mission, a barbarian logging an unconscious myrmidon over his shoulder, and a silent wyvern rider following close behind—made their way over the sea of drunken bodies and vomit, out of the tavern and into the daylight. The change was blinding; if the moon turned the Plegian sands into an ocean of silver, the sun made it an ocean of dazzling gold and diamond.

She also felt as if she were going to roast alive in her cloak, but she supposed that was her own fault for wearing it.

"You can't be serious if you think we're going to make the journey to Gangrel's castle _on foot_ ," she pleaded as a last resort. Carlotta and Henry stared at her as if she'd morphed into a pegasus.

"Um." Carlotta jerked a thumb in the direction they were walking—a stable loomed ahead, blessing those who passed with its shade. "No. We have a caravan. We'll be there before noon. … You can sit inside, if you want, you look like you're gonna boil out here."

And so, resigned to her fate, she plopped into the wagon not twenty minutes later on the road to what was _surely_ her demise.

All she could hope was that her brother did, indeed, make it to the other side of the border. Maybe, if she didn't live to witness the truth behind their story, at least _he_ could.

* * *

The fates were obviously livid over something, because Robin had no such luck.

Oh, he had made it across the border, but he couldn't _know_ that—his mind was as blank as an unenchanted tome. He had barely managed to remember his own name, and even _that_ felt a little uncertain.

 _How did you manage to get into the field on the side of the road?_ The Shepherds had asked.

 _Why were you passed out?_ The Shepherds had asked.

 _Why don't you remember anything?_ The Shepherds had asked.

He'd shrugged like a lost puppy and, like a lost puppy, they'd decided to _put him on a leash._

He didn't even want to know why their knight was carrying around a leash. Frederick the Wary, _indeed_ , he'd thought grumpily, plodding along the side of the road with a blue-haired, somewhat puppylike himself swordsman, his slightly-too-bubbly cleric sister, and _that bloody knight._

Robin tried to compose himself. _Deep breaths. … It looks weird, because you're walking and there are people watching, but deep breaths. No, actually, it shouldn't, because we just finished fending off a band of brigands and you just saw a lot of blood. Definitely deep breaths. Hyperventilate, maybe. … No, then Frederick will be even more suspicious. I didn't even_ do _anything and he's still glaring at m-_

"If you mumble any louder, he just might hear you."

The amnesiac jolted in his steps—he would have stopped if not for the tug on his rope. "Chrom, you scared the _piss_ out of me!"

"Language," Frederick called over his shoulder.

The swordsman himself just chuckled, slinging an arm around Robin's shoulder. Now, Robin wasn't very sure what was trendy in Ylisse or… wherever he came from. But he was _fairly certain_ whoever had let this man dress himself was a lunatic.

Wait, Frederick was in front of them.

… Ah, _that_ explained it.

Robin tried not to recoil at the touch. He didn't know where this man had been. True, he didn't know where he himself had been either, but that was beside the point. He couldn't infect _himself_ with deadly, disastrous diseases, could he?

"Calm yourself, friend! I see now how you're such a good tactician—you're paranoid as only Naga knows of everyone around you."

The cloaked man scowled, drawing his hood tighter around himself. "Forgive me for being apprehensive when I'm _on a literal leash_ , Chrom."

Chrom waved a hand. "Frederick gets a bit overbearing, but it's not much longer now. This time tomorrow, we'll have you well compensated for your troubles."

"Compensation, like money?" His sister wrinkled her nose, suddenly prancing at Robin's other side. _It must run in the family, the ability to spawn directly into someone's personal space_. "You're not seriously gonna hand a stranger a couple bullions and say _here you go, enjoy! We're paying you for bringing you to safety!_ "

"You could pay me for convincing you to move just out of that barbarian's reach earlier." Robin grumbled. "And telling _you_ that no, you should _not_ go and try picking a fight with a man wielding a lance."

"That's _exactly_ why I'm compensating you! We're dragging you half the length of the nation, for goodness' sake, and you saved our hides back there." Chrom had, inexplicably, found a way to link their arms at this point. Robin fought the urge to vomit. "You've done Ylisse a service today, sir. … You should join the Shepherds!"

Frederick suddenly halted in his tracks and, quite literally, made a noise as if something offensive had been waved in front of his nose. " _Milord!_ You can't possibly—"

" _I_ couldn't possibly accept your offer!" Robin cut in. "Too kind. Much too kind! You do realize, Chrom, I could be from potentially _anywhere_?"

"He could be a Plegian spy!"

"I could be… I don't know, a cultist! I could be secretly skilled in necromancy, or perhaps alchemy. Don't tell me you trust everyone you pass by _quite_ so much."

Chrom merely blinked— _like a puppy, indeed!—_ as he looked between his knight and his newfound friend. "You've acted in nothing but good faith so far, Robin. I have every reason to believe you're trustworthy."

Lissa turned around and raised her hands to her temples, groaning as loudly as she hoped might drown out the conversation.

"Frederick. Sir." Robin turned to the knight almost pleadingly. "You don't trust me as far as you could throw me. I acknowledge that. I _respect_ that. You should turn me loose right here and wash your hands of me."

"So you can follow us at a safe distance and terrorize the lands you pass by? I think not." Frederick's eyes narrowed. "You come with us to the capital to be judged."

It was Robin's turn to groan.

"Why do you want to be left alone so badly?" Chrom persisted. "We took a stranger's help gladly; what makes it so different for you to accept help in return?"

"What makes it different is that you're so _absurdly_ trustworthy in comparison!" The amnesiac raised his hands skyward. "I can't believe a group of _highly skilled and armored units_ is so quick to trust a man with a sword! It's not that I'm not _grateful_ —" at which point Chrom relaxed in stance, and Frederick turned away, "—but I'm _baffled!_ By the gods, I'd follow you people just to see what else you'd trust me with. An entire army, I'd bet."

Suddenly, Lissa and Chrom turned to exchange glances.

"Out of the question." Frederick stated firmly.

"Absolutely." Lissa chimed, though her voice came out in odd tones. Chrom nodded his assent.

"Definitely not. But you would still follow us, and we'd hold you to that. In fact, we will." He clapped his hands together. "Now that we've decided, and the night comes on, we should set up camp for the night."

Frederick suddenly handed the rope binding Robin to him over to Lissa, then darted into the trees.

"Firewood," Lissa said, as if this was the most reasonable and comprehensive explanation in the world, and it was not the first time that day Robin feared for his life.


End file.
